“Ah, my dear friend, don’t!” she cried, smiling at him with trembling lips. “We’ve discussed that--and you know I can’t allow it. Don’t make me regret having taken this beautiful holiday at your hands. I never thought you could persuade me even to that, but you are wonderful when you plead, Fergus.” He took her hand and kissed it. She gently withdrew it. “It sounds so strange to hear you called ‘Robert,’” she said. “You are always ‘Fergus’ to me. It’s a beautiful name, associated with beautiful work.” Her eyes dilated, and Robert wondered whether she was thinking of the scene between the lovers in _The Magician_, or of the moonlit terrace scene upon which he prided himself in _The Starry Host_, his last poetical drama,--or perhaps of one of his little prose poems? Her expression called up agreeable reminiscences of nearly all his writing. “I’ve been watching for you all the morning,” he told her. “But that was very bad for your work.” She shook her head at him playfully. “My work is always at a standstill without you.” She looked at him affectionately. “Do you know, I can’t help being glad of that! It does show, I think, that your work is a bond between us in the highest and best sense.” He assented absently. “Cecily read me your letter,” he added after a moment’s pause. She waited for him to comment upon it. “Was it right?” she asked at length, when he was silent. “I kept strictly to the truth. I hate anything that’s not absolutely sincere.” “Yes,” he replied, dubiously. “It was the truth, of course, but it gave her a wrong impression. She thinks we only met at Lady Wilmot’s.” “Isn’t that what you intended?” There was a momentary ring of sharpness in her voice. “Yes,” he returned, uncertainly again. “Yes, I suppose so.” His face clouded for an instant. When he again sought her eyes, she was smiling indulgently. “Fergus,” she said, “don’t you understand? If women were all fine and noble enough there would be no occasion to withhold anything. We could be quite frank about our friendships, knowing that they would not be misconstrued. But as it is----” She paused. “Well?” “As it is, while so many women are still mentally undeveloped, morally childish, truth must come as--well, as a progressive revelation.” Robert laughed a little. “I’m afraid it will always be a revelation,” he said, a latent sense of humor for a moment asserting itself, “progressive or otherwise.” Philippa did not encourage humor. “I have greater faith,” she returned, with serious eyes. “There are _some_ great souls among women, Fergus, after all.”